


A Little Spark

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary dies, and John goes back to live at Baker Street. Grief is a powerful aphrodisiac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whiskey

                John tipped the bottle, roughly, into his glass. Whiskey splashed onto the carpet before John got the right angle to pour it in. “Whoops!” he exclaimed, the word slurring out of his lips. He looked up at Sherlock. “Sorry ‘mbout chur… rug,” he said, then giggled at how poorly he’d articulated those words.

                Sherlock didn’t seem angry, John thought. But he certainly didn’t seem friendly, either. He’d been sitting at the small table they had in the living room, typing on his laptop, when John had come stumbling back to the flat. “Back!” John had announced, drunkenly, nearly tripping over himself on the way to the kitchen to grab the whisky bottle and tumbler from the cupboard. He’d found them easily (just where he’d left them!) and carried them over to the couch, plopping down and unscrewing the bottle.

                During all this time, Sherlock had only watched, his body still rigid and hands poised over the keyboard.

                “You’re not gonna say somethin’?” John asked now, lifting the half-filled glass to his lips. “I ‘pologized for s’this,” he pointed at the carpet.

                Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, then turned back to his computer. “You should go to bed, John.”

                John snorted into his drink. “Sure, yeah, right… m’bed. Yes.” John blinked at the whiskey bottle, sitting on the coffee table. How did it get there? Wasn’t it in his hand? _Oh, well_. He swiped it off the table and stood up, swaying a bit on his feet. “’Night,” he said to Sherlock, turning and shuffling toward the stairs.

                “Leave the bottle.”

                John turned around, peering at Sherlock through the dim light of their flat. “Fuck you,” he said, not really with any malice; more as a matter of fact. He turned back and climbed the stairs to his room.

***

                The next morning, John dragged himself into the living room, terribly hung over and on edge. He made it over to his chair by the fireplace and sat down, heavily, his hands massaging his pounding head. Sherlock came over from the kitchen and set a cuppa next to him, then went back to the table and opened his laptop. “Interesting case came through this morning,” he said. “Two men dead, in completely different parts of the city, but both—“

                “Sherlock,” John interrupted, his eyes still closed under his fingertips. “I don’t _care_.”

                Sherlock turned in his seat. “Just come to the crime scenes with me, I’ll be needing a medical opinion—“

                “That’s not going to work,” John interrupted again. “I don’t want to go, on _any_ cases, how many _times_ do I have to _tell_ you.”

                “It would be good for you to do… _something_ ,” Sherlock grumbled, put-out by John’s refusal.

                John’s eyes popped open. “You don’t know what’s bloody good for me.”

                Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his expression showed concern.

                “Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock,” John started. “This is _grief_. This is what happens when someone you love _dies_. This is what it bloody _looks_ like.” John felt a lump begin to form in his throat, and he closed his eyes, angrily willing himself not to cry again. He took a deep, shaky breath, and let it out slowly. “Look, I appreciate the attempts at making me feel better, but this is not what you do, Sherlock, this is not how to deal with someone who just… lost their wife. And unborn child.”

                Sherlock stared at the ground. “Then tell me what I should _do_.”

                John knew Sherlock was trying to be a good friend, but he was sick of attempting to explain human nature to him, of teaching him to have normal human responses—especially in situations where John was the one who needed him to have a normal human response. “Well, you can start by not telling me when to go to bed, or when to get up, or to stop drinking, or to _do_ something,” he snapped.

                Sherlock looked a bit guilty and didn’t reply.

                John sighed. “Just… _be_ ,” he said, quietly. “Just be here, and do your experiments, and yell at Mrs. Hudson for cleaning too much, and play your violin… just be here, and let me deal with this on my own.”

                Sherlock seemed disappointed by the answer, but he nodded. He turned back to his computer and began typing again, silently.

                John suddenly felt very tired. He stood and shuffled up the stairs, making it back to his room and collapsing on top of the mattress, pulling the quilt over his head. He turned his face into his pillow and began to sob.

***

                “I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson as she brought some left-over apple turnovers to the table. “If he’s not drinking, he’s sleeping, and if he’s not sleeping, he’s crying… and I don’t even have to _deduce_ that, I can _hear_ it,” he said, clearly distressed.

                “Now, now, John will pull through,” reassured Mrs. Hudson, pouring him a cup of tea. “He’s done before. And this one’s not nearly as bad.”

                “As bad as what?” Sherlock asked, his fingertips pressed against the sides of his closed eyes.

                Mrs. Hudson twisted her lips and looked uncomfortable. “Well, as bad when he thought _you_ were dead. Oh, that was much worse.” She shook her hands to wave away the memory.

                Sherlock’s eyes blinked open. He hadn’t made the connection, hadn’t thought about how John must have reacted in a similar fashion when he’d believed Sherlock dead… the thought put a funny feeling in his stomach. He suddenly was no longer hungry for pastries.

                “Just let him work it out, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson advised. “He’ll be alright.”

                Sherlock fiddled with the handle of his teacup, not sure if he believed her.

***

                Sherlock went out to work on the double-homicide case and didn’t end up back at Baker Street until after dinnertime. He was frustrated by the case (he really _could_ have used a medical expert) and the journey (the train had broken down twice on the way home) and when he entered the flat he saw the last thing that he wanted to see: John Watson, passed out in his chair, covered in his own vomit and white as a sheet.

                “John—“ Sherlock flew towards him, checking his pulse; still beating. Sherlock put the back of his hand to John’s putrid mouth; still breathing. He sighed, his adrenaline dissipating. “For God’s sake, John,” he muttered. He shrugged off his coat and flung it on the couch, then squatted down to lift John out of the chair.

                “Whassa—wha?” John asked.

                “We’re getting you cleaned up,” Sherlock told him gruffly, half dragging him to the bathroom, lifting him to put him in the tub. John’s head lolled forward and to the side, his eyes fluttering between open and closed, conscious and unconscious.

                “Sher…” John mumbled, lifting his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. Then he proceeded to vomit again, the sick dribbling down his chin.

                “ _Jesus_ , John,” Sherlock swore quietly. He held his breath against the sour smell emanating from his friend and moved to turn on the faucet. John fell forward without Sherlock to support him, and Sherlock caught him just before his head smacked against the tub’s edge. He righted him again, his arms and face getting soaked by the shower.

                After a few minutes, Sherlock deemed most of the vomit washed away and began to strip off John’s wet clothes. John suddenly opened his eyes and looked up at him. “They’re dead,” he said, beginning to cry. “Why’re they dead, Sherlock? Why?”

                Sherlock steadied John’s torso, John’s shirt unbuttoned and stuck, sopping, to his sides. “I don’t know,” he said, heavily. “I’m sorry. I wish they weren’t—“

                John slumped forward, crying, his head falling into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock stiffened, awkward at the intimacy of the contact, keenly aware of John’s bare torso against him. The shower still poured down, filling the room with steam.

                Slowly, Sherlock lifted his arm and put it round John’s back, patting him gently. “There, there,” he soothed, surprised at the pleasant feeling it gave him to comfort someone.

                John’s sobs subsided, and he pulled away from Sherlock’s body. He stared at Sherlock’s face, his eyes going over his hair, nose, mouth. He put one hand up to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder again, steadying himself. _Is he trying to stand?_ Sherlock wondered, and leaned forward to support him.

                When he did so, John kissed him.

                Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he froze, not knowing what to do. John’s lips were soft and warm, but sour from the vomit, and his breath was laced with alcohol. Sherlock just sat there, paralyzed with shock, until John’s face rolled off his and he passed out again.


	2. Sunlight

               John woke up to a thin line of bright sunlight streaming in through the blinds and onto his face. He was laying on his side, facing the window—not his usual position, for that very reason. “Ugh,” he groaned, rolling onto his back. His head swam, throbbing in pain. He tried thinking back to the night before… he remembered Sherlock left, and he’d steadily drunk himself into oblivion... John crunched his eyes together. What happened after that? Flashes of memory came back: the hallway outside the bathroom, the bottom of the washtub, Sherlock’s drenched shirt and hair. John opened his eyes, confused. What _had_ happened last night?

                John looked toward the door, and as he did so, spotted two ibuprofen and a glass of water on his nightstand. He stared at them for a second. “Sherlock,” he croaked, feeling guilty and grateful at the same time. He reached over, grabbed the pills, and swallowed them with a gulp of water. He laid back down and closed his eyes, dizzy from the movement. _Later,_ he thought to himself. _I’ll wait till later to remember last night._

***

                When John woke up again, it was dark outside. He sat up suddenly, angry with himself that he’d slept the whole day through. His headache had subsided, but he still felt unbalanced and fog-brained—and he had to pee like the dickens.

                John swung his legs round the side of the bed and stood up slowly. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a Hard-Rock Café (New York) t-shirt (gift from his sister, years ago). Both garments would have been in the bottom dresser drawer, the one that he never used… John blinked. Did Sherlock… _dress_ him? He shook his head, bewildered, and made his way to the bathroom. He stood over the toilet and emptied his bladder, sighing with relief. He closed his eyes, the light overhead too harsh for his hangover.

                Memories of last night suddenly flooded back to him. Sherlock putting him in the tub, Sherlock holding him, undressing him, John’s head buried in Sherlock’s neck, the way Sherlock’s shirtsleeves were soaked through and his hair and face were damp from the shower spray… and then, the kiss.

                John’s eyes snapped open, and he jolted in panic—accidentally peeing on the floor. “Shit, bugger!” he swore. He just stood there for a moment, his dick in his hand, trying to register the memory that he’d seen. “Oh my God,” he groaned. He hoped that it wasn’t a real memory, but he had a terrible, gnawing feeling that it was.

                John finished urinating and cleaned up the floor, then took a deep breath and went downstairs. He shuffled into the kitchen, where Sherlock was perched over his microscope, adjusting the focus wheel. Sherlock didn’t look up or say anything as John stopped and stared at him.

                Then John spotted coffee brewing on the counter and went to pour himself a cup. He glanced sideways in Sherlock’s direction, knowing now for sure that the kiss _had_ occurred; Sherlock normally sat stiffly at his microscope, but not _that_ stiffly. He was clearly physically uncomfortable around John—even John, unobservant simpleton that he was, could deduce that much. He sighed. “Sherlock…”

                “Don’t.”

                John blinked. “Sherlock, I just want to say—“

                “It’s fine.”

                John looked at him, the memories of the night before coming back again. He shook his head. “It’s not fine. What happened last night… that was not okay. I was out of control. And I’m sorry.”

                Sherlock said nothing in reply.

                John looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to let you know that I’m going to make an appointment to see my therapist again.”

                Sherlock stopped turning the wheel.

               “I need to… I have to do something about this.”

               Sherlock sat back and shifted his weight in the seat, then leaned forward again. “You told me that this was ‘grief.’”

               John looked around. “Yes…”

               “That this is what people do when someone they love dies.”

               John sighed. “Yes, but—“

               “That was not the first time you’ve been so drunk. And that is, according to you, a perfectly acceptable expression of grief. But last night you were drunk _and_ kissed me, and now you need to see a therapist.”

               John gaped; this was not a turn he’d expected this conversation to take. “Sherlock, this has nothing to do with the fact that I… I mean, I’m not trying to say that there’s something wrong with… with kissing you… I mean, it’s just I’m not… not…” John trailed off, suddenly feeling angry. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, it’s not always about you!”

               Sherlock said nothing, which made John all the more furious. “I think I’m going to move back out. I appreciate you taking me in, after… I really do, but it’s just not working out,” he continued, watching for Sherlock’s reaction.

               Sherlock replaced his current slide with a new one, still not responding.

               “Well, what do you _think_ about that?” John pushed, his voice growing a little shrill.

               Sherlock wrote something down on the notepad at his hand, then readjusted his face back onto the viewer. “My opinion obviously carries no weight in your decision, so why bother asking?” He didn’t wait for John to answer. “I’ll tell you why; you are clearly trying to provoke an angry response from me, one which I have no interest in giving you. So I will choose to remain silent on the matter.” His face was impassive, his demeanor calm.

               It drove John up the wall.

               “You prick,” he fumed, “why couldn’t you have just left me alone like I asked?”

               Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope. “You wanted me to leave you, passed out in the middle of the living room, covered in your own sick, me not knowing if you were dead or alive? No, John, you didn’t want to be ignored. If you had, you would have just gone and drunk yourself to sleep in your bedroom where you’d have thought I wouldn’t know the difference.”

               John stared at him, incredulous. “What, you’re saying that I… that I did this for _attention?_ ” His face began to tremble with rage. “Fuck you. _Fuck._ _You_. You don’t know the _first_ thing about what I’m going through. Fuck you, Sherlock.”

               “I know more than you think I do.”

               “Oh yeah?” John challenged. “From Googling the five stages of grief, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing? Give me a fucking break. When have you _ever_ lost someone you loved, huh? Tell me, when?” Sherlock didn’t respond, so John continued for him: “Never. The answer is ‘never.’ Because you’ve never cared about someone enough to love them in the _first_ place.”

               Sherlock was off of his stool and in John’s face before he could blink. “How is it that you never seem to understand,” he seethed, his voice a deep growl that became a snarl, “no matter how many times I tell you or show it, that I care about _you_. How is that, John?”

               John swallowed, staring up into Sherlock’s face, which was flushed in anger. It was frightening and satisfying at the same time. He could have ended the row there, could have apologized and everything would have gone back to normal. But he didn’t want to. Something about his mood, whether it was his hangover or his grief or the fact that he hardly ever got to see this emotional side of Sherlock, was making him feel combative. So he pushed further.

               “But you’re a _sociopath_ ,” John mocked. “You _can’t_ love.”

               Sherlock’s eyes searched his face, his brow crinkled over his eyelids. “You’re angry,” he observed.

               John snorted. “What a deduction!” he exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

               “But you’re not angry with me.”

               John clenched his teeth together. “What are you doing?”

               “You’re angry because your wife is dead, and not just because you loved her.”

               John shook his head, warning him. “Don’t.” John’s provocation was backfiring, and he was not happy about it.

               Sherlock ignored him and continued. “No, you’re angry at the fact that _that_ woman, extremely intelligent and clever, who lived such a thrilling life and overcame immensely difficult obstacles, who you overcame your own obstacles to be with, _that_ woman’s life ended from something as base as childbirth. Billions upon billions of women have survived it, and yet Mary, who had survived so much more, didn’t. You’re angry because you don’t know who to be angry with, because no one killed her; it wasn’t a violent death, it was a natural one. You don’t know on whom to take your revenge, because there is no one to blame. Well,” Sherlock amended, cocking his head to one side, “except for maybe yourself. Maybe you are angry with yourself, the only possible person to blame, for getting her pregnant in the first place.”

               “ _Jesus,_ Sherlock,” John exhaled, shocked at Sherlock’s bluntness and the truth in the deduction. “Do you even realize how _cruel_ …. Maybe you _could_ read all of that on my face, but you didn’t have to… Jesus _Christ_ , you didn’t have to _say_ it.”


	3. Subconscious

                Ok, so maybe he _had_ crossed the line.

                Sherlock wasn’t so sure why he’d gone off like that. As far as deductions went, it hadn’t been very difficult; he knew John well and, despite what other people thought, he knew quite a lot about the psychology of human nature. So, deducing that John was angry at the universe, and maybe himself—he could have done that in his sleep.

                But to speak it out loud, to say it to John’s face—John was right, there was no need for him to do that. He’d obviously said it with malicious intent. But why? There was no reason for him to be _that_ upset about the recent turn of events. Sure, he didn’t approve of John’s drinking himself to death’s door every night, but John would eventually move on from that stage of grief—he didn’t _really_ want to die, and as a doctor, he knew the human body’s limits. Sherlock really shouldn’t be as worried as he was. After all, he didn’t like being worried. It made his stomach roil and fogged his normally sharp brain. It made him feel out of control. He shouldn’t worry, John was right, it was just a passing sadness, Sherlock just had to let him deal with it in his own way. Maybe he _should_ have left him sitting in that chair. Maybe he should apologize.

                The apology wouldn’t be sincere, though. Because if Sherlock hadn’t picked John up out of the chair, if he hadn’t put him in the washtub, if he hadn’t held him as he cried, there would have been no kiss.

                Ah, the kiss.

                Immediately after it happened, Sherlock tried not to think about it. He pushed it to the back of his brain as he finished stripping off John’s wet clothes and put on new, dry ones. He kept it at the back after he lay John in his bed on his side, in case he vomited again—a lesson he’d learned in the first year of this drug addiction—and continued keeping it there as he went to his own bed, exhausted. But he didn’t delete it.

                Perhaps that was his mistake. He should have deleted it, or at least tried to, because the dreams it prompted that night had left him in turmoil.

                Sherlock was not one to waste time thinking about sex. Sex always led to emotions, and emotions were debilitating to the analytical mind. His methods of deduction only worked because he had trained himself to remain perfectly objective in situations where most other people could not. Becoming friends with John, and caring about him, that had been misstep enough. He’d put himself in mortal danger more than once for John Watson—not exactly the mark of logical, calculated decisions.

                No, Sherlock did not think about sex. He’d never had much of a libido, which was immensely helpful, and the times that he did feel rather… _bothered_ , he’d toss off quickly in the shower, not really thinking about anything, just trying to get some relief and move on to more important things.

                Dreams, however, were another matter entirely. Sherlock didn’t have complete control over his subconscious as he did his conscious mind, although it wasn’t for lack of trying: he had experimented with lucid dreaming and had been able to alter his dreams to some extent. A dream would start and he’d use certain techniques to become aware that he was dreaming, and then he could change the trajectory of the dream into whatever he wanted. Usually, he’d think about his experiments, even doing trial runs and “experiencing” the potential outcomes firsthand.

                But he couldn’t control all of his dreams. For whatever reason, once in a while he’d have one that he’d get so wrapped up in, he’d forget his tricks for lucidity. Most of the time, they were nightmares, and most of the time about things from his childhood, back before he’d had control over his emotions; those deep-seated experiences that he’d tried to delete or bury but which would never fully leave him.

                Sexual dreams were even rarer. He’d had them more when he was younger, in his teenage years, but usually they were dreams about masturbating—he was never very attracted to the other pupils in school (they were all too stupid to be desirable), and porn was so obviously fake that he couldn’t see how _anyone_ might be aroused by it. In fact, until last night, he hadn’t had a sexual dream in probably… well, probably a decade.

                Last night, something had burst loose in his head. The kiss had awoken something in him that he didn’t even know was sleeping—he thought it was dead, or maybe that it had never existed at all. As it turned out, however, it was just lying dormant, waiting for a little spark to send it hurdling back into wakefulness.

                The actual kiss had been awkward and had absolutely no arousing effect on Sherlock. He didn’t feel anything in the moment save for surprise and slight disgust (at the vomit-taste). But the first dream he’d had that night had been inspired by the kiss, had twisted it into something that was _much_ better than the real thing had been.

                They were in the bathroom, the room was foggy from the shower mist, but Sherlock could still see John’s blurry silhouette in front of him. His pulse quickened and he felt a bit light headed as he leaned in and closed his eyes. John’s lips didn’t taste bad, this time; in fact, they tasted like John smelled, like coffee and aftershave, musky and sweet. The kiss was soft, and damp, damper than it might have been, for both of their faces were covered in condensation from the steam. Sherlock felt his nose slide across John’s and onto his cheek as he turned his head to deepen the kiss; in response, John’s lips parted and Sherlock felt a slight tickle of heat on his tongue as John exhaled into his mouth. Sherlock exhaled back and murmured a sound through his breath, a slight, soft moan—

                Sherlock woke up, his heart pounding. Just a dream, just a dream… _and a rather nice one, at that…_ Sherlock tried to blink himself back to reality, ignoring the slight stiffness in his groin. If he woke up enough, he could shift gears and dream of something else when he fell back asleep…

                He rolled over to bury his face in the back of John’s neck, smelling his skin, feeling the bristle of John’s short haircut on his forehead. John backed up against him, spooning, and Sherlock slid his arm slowly over the small of John’s back and ran his fingers delicately under the elastic of his pants. John rutted up against him in response, sending a surge of blood down between his legs, and he began to kiss John’s neck, lightly, teasing him, brushing his lips against the underside of his jaw, his earlobe, and John breathed out a word, “ _Sherlock…_ ”

                Sherlock woke up again, with a start, fully erect and entirely annoyed. He lay there for a few moments, trying to distract himself by thinking about the double murder case. He began to recall in detail the grotesque positions of the bodies, the blood, the smell—

                — _there_. Sherlock’s erection dissipated and he let out a relieved sigh. Maybe if he got up and walked around for a bit before going back to sleep, he’d be able to move on from this bothersome vein of subconscious imagination.

                Sherlock sat up and slid out of bed, padding to the loo to splash some cold water on his face. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and stood there for a moment, studying himself. He’d turned a bit pink from the icy water, his cheeks bright in a pleasant flush… or was that left over from the dream? Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Get a grip_ , he said to himself. He left the bathroom and climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and falling asleep once more.

                “Has Mrs. Hudson finished the pies?”

                Sherlock looked over from his chair at the wall of ovens in their kitchen, blazing hot, John leaning easily back against the countertop and staring at him. “Can you check?” John asked again, a slyness in his voice. “These damned things are so _hot_.”

                Sherlock stood up and walked to the wall, opening up each oven and carefully examining it for pie. He kept thinking he’d got them all, but then he realized he’d skipped one, somehow, and moved down to check it, then realized he’d skipped another on the other side. He felt frantic, overwhelmed.

                “Shhh,” said John’s voice, suddenly in his ear.

                Sherlock felt a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He closed his eyes and leaned backward, slightly, against John’s torso. John set his hands on either side of his waist, then flipped him around and backed him up against the wall. Sherlock felt himself moan as John’s lips were on his, their chests and hips pressed together, John’s hand round the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers threaded through his hair, Sherlock’s back burning against the heat of the ovens, sweating, breathing faster and faster, and then John’s hand was down his pants, _God_ , John’s _hand_ —

                When he awoke this time, he was covered in sweat and had both hands pressed against his throbbing hard-on, evidently trying to get himself off in his sleep. He threw back the covers at once, breathing irregularly, the tent in his pants high enough to intrude on his field of vision even as he was lying down flat.

                This was absolutely ridiculous. Something had to be done. Sherlock sighed and reached down again to feel himself through the thin fabric of his boxers. He was very hard, and very aroused, and he quickly spit into his hand and slid it under the waist of his pants. He ran his fingers over the head of his cock, smearing the wetness around, before stroking once with his now contracted fist and letting a groan of pleasure escape his throat. This wasn’t going to take long, he’d do it quick and clean up and go back to sleep and be good for another couple of months.

                Sherlock worked his hand up and down his cock, stroking firmly and deliberately. It felt good… but something wasn’t quite right. He began to pant with the effort, willing himself to tip over the edge. _Just come already_ , he said to himself. But he seemed to have hit a wall. _Come on_ , he thought, frustrated. _Just get this over with_. He gritted his teeth and slid his hand along the shaft, faster now, but he couldn’t bring himself past the plateau.

                He stopped touching himself with an exasperated huff and considered going back to his original plan, which was to distract himself from his desire until he was calm enough to sleep again. But his erection still stretched up into his pants, and he knew it wasn’t going to go away of its own accord. He found that he was stuck in that strange spot between needing to come and not being able to, a spot which he’d been in a handful of times before. It was not pleasant.

                Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to relax his body. It was going to take a bit more work, this. He wondered if he should think about something. About his dream… a stab of excitement hit his belly, just thinking about _thinking_ about the dream. He opened his eyes again, deciding if he really wanted to do this. To think about John this way. He hadn’t before, not really, not any further than the jealously that had hit him at times in the past, when John would choose to spend time with his girl of the week rather than with Sherlock. He’d always interpreted that jealousy as platonic, of selfishly wanting John around to talk to and to help him solve crimes—not a lover’s jealousy, no, most certainly not _that_. But he couldn’t deny that there had always been some sort of attraction there, ever since they’d first met in the laboratory of St. Bart’s. He hadn’t really examined it, but he supposed now that it had played a role of significance in the fast intimacy that grew between them, played into the fact that John was the first person in Sherlock’s entire life whom he’d actually cared about—enough to fear losing him. Fear was not one of Sherlock’s regular, few emotions; dangerous situations normally excited him, stimulated his intellect and curiosity. But in the case of John, danger made him feel nauseous, panicked. He’d grown attached. He’d grown very attached.

                Did he really want to do this? To consciously think about John in this way? Caring about him was bad enough, but to add sexual desire on top of it…. Would it change anything? Would it ruin anything? Maybe caring and love and sex all went hand-in-hand. Sherlock didn’t know for sure, he was not experienced enough in such matters to know.

                He could try to keep it private. A private feeling, stowed away, compartmentalized unless he really needed it… for moments like this. For moments when he needed relief and couldn’t get it just by touching himself, for moments when he needed his imagination to help stimulate him to climax. Those moments didn’t happen very often, anyway. He could pull out the thought, indulge in it for a short time until he got off, and then he could put it away, hide it deep in his mind palace for next time. Yes, he could do that.

                Sherlock closed his eyes again, lightly rubbing his prick through the fabric, letting his mind wander back to the dream, completing it. He deleted the wall of pie-baking ovens (how bizarre) and instead imagined their _actual_ kitchen. John pushing him up against the edge of the countertop, John’s hands on his face and running through his hair, kissing him deeply. Sherlock licked his lips and squeezed his cock, imagining John rubbing their groins together, feeling John’s erection on his own through their trousers.

_Oh, yes._

                John’s hand left Sherlock’s face and untucked the front of his shirt from his trousers, then slid underneath said shirt and laid its palm flat against his lower belly. Sherlock moved his own hand to mirror John’s in the fantasy, slipping it down, down, under the waistband of his pants, down, _oh_ , over the length of his cock, gripping it firmly. Sherlock sucked in a breath, imagining John’s face, their foreheads touching, breathing heavily onto each other’s chins, John saying something dirty, something like, “You like my hand on your cock?”, growling it, his voice deeper than normal, gruff with lust. Sherlock didn’t respond with words, just lifted his hips into John’s hand, wanting more. _More._

                Sherlock rolled over in bed and spit into his hand again, arching forward as he reached down to grab himself. John’s hand began to pump up and down, working the hard, smooth flesh beneath it, sliding firmly over the head, down to the base, back over the head. Sherlock humped his fist, keeping his body off the bed with his other forearm, keeping some space to move. A groan escaped his lips, then little moans of “Oh, Oh,” and John was sleeping, he was passed-out drunk, he wouldn’t hear, and it was a damn good thing because Sherlock couldn’t control his noises now. “Oh, _God_ ,” he said into his pillow, imagining John’s free hand gripping the base of his neck, his thighs keeping Sherlock’s trapped against the counter as he stroked him faster, tightly, and then John forcing him into a sloppy kiss, mouths opened and tongues wet against each other, then Sherlock’s head in John’s shoulder, John whispering in his ear, “Come for me. I want to see you come. I want to _make_ you come.”

                “John, John, John,” Sherlock chanted into his pillow, and suddenly he was there, his balls tightened and he held himself rigid, save for his hand working the head of his cock. He came, hard, trying to muffle his moan of release, his eyes rolling back as his semen shot out in hot bursts on his stomach, sheets, pillow.

                After it was over, he collapsed, breathing raggedly for some time, his hand still clenched around his dwindling erection. He rolled on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, feeling incredibly guilty about his fantasy. _Put it away_ , he told himself. _Bury it._ He closed his eyes. _Away, away…_

                When Sherlock woke up that morning, it was with a crusty shirt and sheets. He sat up in bed, looking down at the mess he’d made. He was going to have to do laundry today. But first things first: John. Sherlock threw on a new shirt and his dressing gown and made his way up the stairs to check on him. He cracked John’s door and peered through the opening, holding two ibuprofen and a glass of water. He studied John’s silhouette… yes, he was breathing. Sherlock tiptoed into the room and set the pills and water on the bedside table.

                John didn’t stir at all as Sherlock set down the glass. But when he took a step back, about to turn away, John made a small sound, a little whine. Sherlock froze, but John stayed still and silent.

                The sunlight shone through the crack between the blinds and the window frame, shone on John’s sandy-blond head, making his hair sparkle with golden light. Sherlock realized that it was warmer in this room, and it _smelled_ warm, and sweet, like sleep… like _John_ sleeping. Suddenly, Sherlock had an urge to slide into bed next to him, settle against his back and bury his face in John’s neckline, feel him breathing, his body expanding and contracting—

                Sherlock shook himself out of the reverie, panicking. He glanced down at the front of his dressing gown, were he could see yet another erection starting to form. What the _hell_? It wasn’t like him to have two erections so close together, never mind in one single day… _Put it away_ , Sherlock willed himself. He backed out of the room and closed the door.

                Sherlock walked down the stairs to the kitchen, trying to ignore the uncomfortable bulge in his pants. He filled the kettle and set it on the counter, turned it on, and looked around for some other way to distract himself. But all he could think about was John’s room, the dream-like lighting, the heat, the would-be softness of the sheets, the hardness of John’s cock as Sherlock slid his hand—

_No_. Sherlock took a deep breath. Not again. But it was too late, the fantasy was already there… Sherlock stood with one hand gripping the countertop, the other grasping his prick through the layers of his dressing gown and pants. He was still sensitive from last night’s antics… he groaned with the realization that he was going to have to masturbate _again_. Twice in the span of… what was it, six hours? Unheard of. Uncalled for. Yet he wanted it, more than he wanted anything in that moment.

                Sherlock switched off the kettle and hurried into the bathroom, closing (and locking) the door. He turned on the shower, remembering last night, and his dream, and _oh_ , the water couldn’t heat up fast enough. He threw off his clothes in a frenzy and scanned the counter, spotting a bottle of lotion. He took two pumps of the cream and spread it over his hard-on. He was embarrassed at himself, but no one needed to know that this was happening, that he was about to get off for the second time in six hours, and that he couldn’t even wait for the shower to be warm before he did it.

                He stood at the sink completely naked, jerking off like a teenager, eyes screwed shut and his hand flying over his penis, the shower finally hot, very hot, the steam thickening the air, making him slightly light headed.

                “Fuck,” he breathed, and he came, all over the sink, faucet, mirror, thinking about being tangled in John’s sheets, their bare skin touching in a thousand places.

***

                Hours later, when John finally woke up, Sherlock couldn’t even look at him. He heard him stumble to the toilet, heard some rustling around, heard him come down the stairs, _felt_ his presence as he stepped into the kitchen and stood there, staring at Sherlock and the microscope.

                Sherlock had severely miscalculated. Instead of being able to put his fantasies of John into the back of his mind, they were multiplying, spreading, growing, taking _over_. And he was… he liked it. He wanted _more_. As much as it disgusted him, he was in awe of what was happening, of how he’d managed to discover some part of himself that he didn’t know was there. As much as he was ashamed and embarrassed and, above all, scared, he didn’t want to stop it.

                But he was at a loss with John actually in the room. With real John, not fantasy John, shuffling over to the coffee pot, turning to him, speaking to him. Sherlock was terribly afraid of _looking_ at him, afraid that these new feelings would show plain as day on his face, that John would _know_. But what was he going to do? Never look at John again? No, of course not. But he couldn’t, right now. He couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t even _speak_ to him. He tried to stifle John’s feeble apologies, cutting him off. _Get the message, John. I can’t interact with you right now. Not until I’ve sorted this all out._

                “I’m going to make an appointment to see my therapist again.”

                Sherlock’s world slowed down. Wait, what? Therapist? Because… why? Just yesterday John had told him that his way of grieving was normal. He’d only go to see a therapist if something was _ab_ normal.

                The kiss.

                Sherlock felt his skin shrink. _The kiss_. John thought it was abnormal. Wrong. Needed professional help. Two men, good friends, and kissing was wrong. So, by proximity, Sherlock’s fantasies were also wrong. John was disturbed by the kiss, so how would he react if he knew…

                The fuzzy bubble Sherlock had been living in all day day dissolved in an instant. And he lashed out.

                “I apologize,” he said now, suddenly quite aware that he’d brought the whole thing upon himself. John had nothing to do with Sherlock’s mind quantum-leaping to gay sex after a sour, sloppy kiss that occurred between friends, when one of them was absolutely consumed by grief and looking for comfort anywhere he could get it. John just stared at him, puzzled by the sudden change in his attitude. He blinked and ran a hand through his hair, thinking.

                “Honestly, John,” Sherlock tried again, “I don’t know… I’m not sure what came over me. You didn’t deserve that.”

                “It was true, though,” said John, not yet acknowledging the apology. “I suppose I _am_ angry at myself.”

                “Which is absolutely preposterous,” Sherlock pointed out. “Please, John, as if you could have seen the future. As if you knew this would happen.”

                John sighed and his gaze faded into remembrance. “It was horrible, wasn’t it.” His eyes misted over. “I don’t think the sight of it will ever stop haunting me.”

                Sherlock tried _not_ to remember, but the images came to his mind anyway; middle of the night, emergency room, screaming, blood soaked through the pad on the gurney, the whole room smelling like the hot, sticky, metallic scent of life fading away. Mary’s pale, pale skin, John’s frantic, frightened eyes looking into his, as if to say, “Do something! Do something, Sherlock! My _wife_ is dying!” Blood dripping off the gurney and onto the floor, footprints, shoes slipping in it. “Get him out of here!” Sherlock blundering over, grabbing John’s arms, pulling him out of the room as he screamed, “No! I’m a doctor! I’m a doctor, goddamn it!” The defibrillator coming out, the “clear!”, the jolt, the silence. John’s helpless cries of “Jesus,” and “God, no,” and “Oh, God, please, _no_.”

                Sherlock had vomited in the drinking fountain, after they’d pronounced her dead, after John’s legs had given out, after they’d both sunk to the floor, Sherlock trying and failing to hold him up by the lapels of his jacket, after the doctors had come to tend to him. Sherlock had backed away and felt a terrible wave of nausea, looking for somewhere to—drinking fountain, closest thing.

                He didn’t think John knew about that. That he’d gotten sick. It wasn’t the blood that did it, of course. It was the fact that he was utterly unable to do anything; despite that big brain of his, all he could do was just stand there watching Mary die. He’d failed, his vow was broken, utterly _stupid_ vow, to always be there for all three of them, to protect them. And now two of them were dead—how had that _happened_?


	4. Therapy

                “I think you should come to therapy with me.”

                Sherlock had basically turned catatonic after John had caught him; not even acknowledging his presence, silent. John had even waved a hand in front of his dead-stare eyes, with no effect. “Sherlock, we need to talk about this. We need to. You can’t just pretend I’m not here,” he’d said, frustrated. Sherlock had gotten up from the couch and locked himself in his room.

                “Sherlock!” John had banged on the door for several minutes. “This is just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you! But we can’t act like it never happened.” No response, of course. John had a wild thought, suddenly, of Sherlock in his room, slitting his wrists or somehow otherwise trying to off himself. He pushed the thought away, how ridiculous, the situation wasn’t _that_ bad…

                But it was pretty bad.

                John had come home earlier than usual—hadn’t gone to the pub after work. That had been his therapist’s idea. “Maybe you should lay off the drinking,” she’d said, when he’d explained to her how he’d passed out in the chair, Sherlock had come home, tried to take care of him, then, of course, how they’d kissed.

                “Do you have feelings for Sherlock?” was the first question out of his therapist’s mouth, despite the fact that he’d been coming to her regularly and she _knew_ , from years of previous conversations, that John was not gay.

                “Ella, I’m not gay. Still. Still not gay.” He’d been _this_ close to coming unglued at the question, but somehow managed to hold his tongue. “I just lost my wife. A _woman_ , Ella.”

                “Well,” Ella had said, settling back in her chair, “then maybe you should lay off the drinking.”

                Well, yes, of course. The drinking was unhealthy and _was_ overly excessive and yes, he should stop. He didn’t need a therapist to tell him that. “So, you think the drinking turned me gay.”

                Ella ignored his combative tone. “No,” she said, patiently, “I think grief can make us do funny things, and I think combining grief with the judgment-clouding effects of alcohol is a poor idea.”

                So he hadn’t gone to the pub after work, and therefore had come home earlier than usual. He’d gone upstairs and flung open his bedroom door, just wanting to collapse, when there, in front of him, was Sherlock’s bare arse, Sherlock wanking over his bed.

                There was nothing else he could have been doing. His pants were around his ankles he was holding his erect cock in his hand, turned around with the unmistakable deer-in-the headlights look that John had seen in the movies when mothers caught their teenage boys looking at porn. They’d just stared at each other for a split second (felt like an eternity), and John had finally forced out a “What are you… doing?” right as he was putting the scene together in his head and knew _exactly_ what Sherlock was doing. And Sherlock had gaped, his lips smacking together like a dying fish, no explanation or sound or anything leaving his mouth. And then John had looked down on the bed.

                Oh, how he wished he hadn’t looked on the bed. Beside the towel that had obviously been laid down to catch bodily fluids, there was an old photograph of John from boot camp when he and some other recruits had gone swimming in the nearby lake. John was much younger, then, of course, and very fit, and tan, and shirtless, and… Sherlock was tossing off to it.

                John didn’t even know where Sherlock had found the picture, didn’t even remember it existed until that very moment. “Where did you find _that_?” he’d asked, and then immediately realized that was not even on the top _ten_ list of questions he should be asking right now. Sherlock had seemed to wake up, then. He pulled up his pants and grabbed the towel and fled the scene faster than John would have thought possible. John just stood there, blinking, before turning on his heel and following after.

                “Sherlock!” he’d shouted, entering the living room to see Sherlock sitting upright on the couch, staring straight ahead with the blankest expression John had seen him have, ever, and that was really saying something. And John had tried to talk to him, get his attention, asking “What the hell was that?” and other such questions, not getting a response, until he’d waved a hand in front of Sherlock’s face and Sherlock finally stood up and went to lock himself in his bedroom.

                After nearly ten minutes of pleading through the door, John finally gave up and went to his cupboard—the one with the whiskey. Sod his therapist. Sod sobriety. If there was ever a time he needed a drink, it was in this moment. John took a swig straight from the bottle (it was almost empty anyway) and went to sit back at Sherlock’s door. Fuck it, he’d camp out here if he had to.

                “I’m not leaving this door!” he shouted, taking another drink and trying to make sense of everything.

                Sherlock was not a sexual being. In all the years they’d lived together, John had never so much as heard him masturbate. He’d never found any porn, or toys, or any kind of sex-anything in Sherlock’s room (and he’d certainly looked thoroughly, on those days when he’d had to search for drugs). He’d never had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, or lover of any sort, at least in the time John had known him. The closest he’d come to that was Janine, but he’d heard from Mary who’d heard from Janine that they’d never done more that kiss. He’d thought perhaps Sherlock had had a thing for Irene Adler, the Woman, but he had long suspected that the feelings were of pure intellectual admiration and had nothing to do a sexual attraction.

                To catch Sherlock wanking at all would have been a shock. But this, this was unfathomable. Un-processable. What the actual _fuck_.

                John tried to think back, tried to see if he’d missed any obvious clues that Sherlock was into him. They’d been friends for so long, close friends, so how could he ever distinguish that closeness from sexual desire? Maybe there were signs, but John had not been paying attention, had not thought he _should_ have been paying attention. The very first time they’d gone to dinner together, at Angelo’s, John had all but point-blank asked him if he was gay or straight, and Sherlock had given him the “I’m married to my work” line, and that had been the end of it.

                So, actually, Sherlock had never said if he was or was not gay, was or was not attracted to John—only that he didn’t have space in his life for a relationship. Did that… had that changed? Did he have space, now?

                Oh God, what if he’d fallen for John a long time ago? What if he’d been living with this unrequited love, the curse of his own words still haunting him, “I’m married to my work,” and with John’s heterosexuality vocalized at every possible moment. And John had gotten married, once-and-for-all off limits… but now he was no longer married (John felt a terrible, aching pain in his heart at the realization). Did the fact that John was available… did that cause Sherlock to reopen his heart, rekindle whatever fire had been extinguished by John’s marriage?

                _Ugh_ , this would be so much easier if Sherlock would just bloody talk to him.

                “Please talk to me,” John said quietly, through the door. He thumbed a splinter at the base of the frame. “I’m not angry, I’m not upset. I just want you to talk to me.”

                “I don’t know what to say,” came the muffled, strained reply, directly on the other side of the door. John jumped a little, not expecting Sherlock to have been sitting that close to him the entire time.

                “Just...” John started, “just tell me the truth.” He took a deep breath. “Are you in love with me?”

                There was dead silence on Sherlock’s side of the door. John sat there, waiting for an answer, not knowing what he’d do if Sherlock said “yes.” He supposed he really would have to move out, because how could he subject Sherlock to his presence when they’d never be what Sherlock wanted them to?

                “I don’t know,” was the final answer, given heavily.

                John swallowed. “How… how long has this been going on?”

                “Which part?”

                John blinked. “What do you… the ‘I don’t know if I’m in love’ part.”

                “Approximately thirty seconds.”

                John couldn’t help but laugh at that. It was just like Sherlock not to consider his own feelings until prompted by someone else. “Ok, then,” John amended. “The… the wanking part. How long has that been going on?”

                John heard Sherlock sigh. “Since you kissed me.”

                _Oh_.

                So, this was a thing, with both of them, not just John. It started to make sense, now, why Sherlock had been so upset that John wanted to go to therapy. The kiss had probably given him hope, that there was a chance. Bugger.

                “Sherlock,” John started, awkwardly. “I didn’t… I don’t know why I did that. Why I kissed you, I mean. I think I was just… you know, grieving, upset, lonely. Grief makes people do strange things, sometimes. It didn’t… I didn’t mean anything by it.”

                “I know that, John. And truthfully, I didn’t think anything of it at the time, either. It was only later, that I…” he trailed off.

                John sat there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. And then he had a thought that he knew Sherlock was going to absolutely hate, but it seemed like the best option he could come up with.

                “I think you should come to therapy with me.”

***

                “So, you’re the infamous Sherlock Holmes,” Ella greeted him, smiling as she came into the room.

                Sherlock was gripping both arms of his chair, staring Ella down with such force that John was surprised she could hold his gaze. John, for his part, was holding his breath, hoping to God that Sherlock wouldn’t blow up on her. It had taken much coaxing and threatening on John’s part to get him to come here, but somehow, here they were. And Ella clearly thought she was going to have a field day with the deductive genius and self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath that was Sherlock Holmes.

                She had no idea what she was in for.

                Sherlock licked his lips, giving her a once-over. “Power complex,” he began.

                “Sherlock…” John warned.

                “And you’re a feminist, given by the trouser suit and the lack of jewelry, but insecure, you still wear makeup, and a little too much, not quite the right color for this decade, probably trying to recreate a look from an old photo when you were younger, prettier. Adverse to change, then, as well. The photograph on your desk is of your ex-husband, how do I know he’s an ex? Because no wedding ring, not right now, but you’ve been wearing it recently, I can see the indentation on your finger. You wear it in private and then take it off so no one will know you’re still in love with him.”

                “Sherlock!” John scolded. “Jesus Christ.” He turned to Ella. “So sorry.”

                Ella was relaxing back in her chair, her legs crossed, looking quite amused. “Not a problem,” she said to John, her eyes not leaving Sherlock’s. “Is that all?” she asked, smiling a little.

                “Of course not, there’s plenty more, but John seems to be embarrassed by it, so I’ll refrain from continuing.”

                Ella cocked her head. “Are you always so sensitive to John’s feelings?”

                To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. And then he looked furious with himself for it.

                Ella’s eyes sparkled. “Well, just goes to show that we can deduce anything we want about other people, but when it comes to ourselves, even the best of us are blind.” She smiled. “I certainly had no idea that my lack of jewelry so blatantly exposed my feminism. Here I thought I just hadn’t had time to put it on this morning.”

                John smirked, glancing over for Sherlock’s reaction. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, not saying a word.

                “So,” Ella began. “Mr. Holmes. Why are you here?”

                “John wanted me to come.”

                “And do you always do what John wants?”

                Sherlock blushed again.

                “No, actually,” John interjected. “He never does. Don’t know how I managed to get him here today.”

                Ella turned to him. “John, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll have Mr. Holmes answer his own questions.”

                John sat back and held up his hands in mock surrender. He crossed his legs and turned to watch Sherlock. _She doesn’t want me helping?_ he thought to himself. _Then she deserves what she gets._

Ella turned back to Sherlock. “John tells me that you two kissed.”

                John’s heart stopped. _Already going there, eh?_

                “Is that true?” Ella prompted.

                “Yes,” Sherlock answered.

                “And what were the circumstances?”

                “John was drunk and covered in his own sick, staining my furniture and smelling up the flat.”

                Ella eyed him. “So you decided to kiss him?”

                “No, I decided to put him in the shower.”

                “Ah,” Ella nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “And then what happened?”

                “I rinsed him off.”

                “And then?”

                “And then he…” Sherlock paused. “Why are you asking me, if John’s already told you?” he asked, suspiciously.

                “Because I want to hear your side of the story,” said Ella. “So, tell me, what happened after you rinsed him off?”

                Sherlock glanced in John’s direction. “He began to cry.”

                John shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He didn’t know there had been crying involved.

                Ella made a note in her notebook. “And then?”

                “He asked me…” Sherlock looked sad, suddenly. “He asked me why they were dead.”

                Ella stared at him, intently. “Who did he mean? Mary and the baby?”

                “I assume,” Sherlock replied, recovered from his sadness.

                “Alright.” She made another note. “Go on.”

                “And then I… told him I didn’t know why, and he fell forward, and I…” Sherlock squirmed in his seat, “I tried to comfort him.”

                “How?”

                “Put my arm around him, patted his back, that sort of thing.”

                “And then?”

                Sherlock drew in a breath. “And then, he kissed me.”

                “ _He_ kissed _you_ , there was no reciprocation?”

                “None,” Sherlock confirmed, looking a little relieved.

                Ella made another note.

                John was watching Sherlock, surprised by the details of the re-telling. He didn’t remember the crying, the hugging, what he’d said. He was awfully drunk that night, so he wasn’t too shocked that he didn’t remember, but still… it was more information than what he’d first had.

                Ella looked up from her notebook. “Mr. Holmes, why do you think John kissed you?”

                Sherlock stared at her. “I think… I believe he was just lonely. Grief. He just lost his wife, and was looking for some comfort, and I was there…” he shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

                “It wasn’t a big deal? Then why are you here today?”

                Sherlock swallowed. “Because of what happened after.”

                John quit looking in Sherlock’s direction, instead staring at the patterns in the carpet.

                Ella glanced back and forth between them. “Ok,” she said. “What happened after?”

                Neither of them responded.

                Ella sighed. “John.” John jumped a little at his name. “What happened after?”

                John clenched the chair arms. “Well, I came home last night after work, didn’t go to the pub—you know, you told me not to drink anymore—and I went to my room, and Sherlock was…” John steeled his nerves, avoiding looking at Sherlock “…masturbating. To a picture of me.”

                The silence in the room was deafening. Ella blinked. “Oh!” she said, just to say something to break the tension, John thought. “Well.” She paused, looking down at her notes, then back up at the two of them. John was sure they looked like the two most miserable people on the planet.

                She looked at John, considering something. Her eyes were almost amused again. “And how did that make you feel?”

                John almost burst out laughing at the cliché question. Instead, he told her, “Bloody well violated!”

                Sherlock looked down at his knees.

                John went on. “At first anyway. But then I felt… guilty.” He saw Sherlock glance over at him, sharply.

                “Why?” asked Ella.

                “Because,” said John, swallowing. “I thought maybe he’d… he’d had a thing for me, for a long while. That I’d been a selfish, unfeeling git. I mean, I asked him to be best man at my wedding. My _wedding_. Imagine trying to help plan a wedding for the person you love to marry someone else!”

                Ella didn’t say anything to that, just made a few more notes. Then she looked up at Sherlock.

                “I’m going to ask you some very personal questions,” she said, suddenly quite serious. “Would you like John to leave the room?”

                Sherlock started. “No,” he told her, hesitantly.

                Ella flipped the page of her notebook.

                “Are you in love with John?”

                Sherlock breathed out. “I don’t know. I certainly care about him… and love him, as a friend, but… I don’t know,” he finished, lamely.

                Ella recorded his answer. “Have you _ever_ been in love?”

                Sherlock stared straight ahead. “No.”

                “Have you ever had sex?”

                Sherlock paused.

                Ella put her pen down. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable with John out of the room?”

                “No,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “And no,” he answered, “I haven’t.” He looked silly with embarrassment.

                John sat completely still. These were questions he always wanted the answers to, and thought he’d never have.

                “Kissed? I mean, before your encounter with John.”

                “Of course I’ve kissed.”

                Ella made another note. Then she looked up at him, solemnly.

                “How do you feel about Mary’s death?”

                John could tell that Sherlock was taken aback by the question.

                “I…” he started. John figured he was probably trying to decide right there, on the spot, how he should feel about it. John felt bad for him.

                “Sherlock doesn’t have standard human emotions,” John spoke up. “It’s not his fault, it’s just the way he’s wired. He doesn’t react to things, like death, the same way that most people do.”

                Sherlock and Ella had both turned to look at him. “On the contrary,” Ella replied, turning back the pages of her notes, “I think he is having a perfectly normal human reaction.”

                Now they both stared at _her_.

                “Let’s try a different question,” said Ella. “Mr. Holmes, how do you feel about John living with you again?”

                Sherlock opened his mouth and hesitated. He glanced at John. “I’m glad of it,” he said, in a small voice. “Not, of course, the circumstances that brought him… but yes, I’m glad of it. I…” Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “I missed him.”

                Ella studied his face. “And now that you’ve got him back, you don’t want to let him go.”

                Sherlock looked at her, with a sort of raw emotion that John had never seen. “No.”

                “In fact,” said Ella, “you’re afraid that he will leave again.”

                “Yes.” The reply was soft.

                “And not just by choice.”

                John gave her a puzzled look and turned back to Sherlock to see if he was getting this. John couldn’t read his expression.

                “Mr. Holmes, let me tell you what I think,” said Ella, closing her notebook. “I think you care so deeply about John Watson, that after Mary passed, after seeing how easily people you know can die, you’re afraid that he will, too. You want nothing more than to protect the person you love. The more you fear him leaving, or dying, the more closely you want to hold him to you. And,” Ella went on, “that’s not a metaphor.”

                John stared at her.

                “The ultimate expression of human closeness is sex,” she told them. “Even someone who has never had sex,” she gestured toward Sherlock, “has an instinctual knowledge of this. And for someone who is as… out-of-touch with their own emotions as you, Mr. Holmes, sexual pleasure has become the only way you’ve found to express your feelings—and you found it the moment John kissed you. You love John, you fear for him, you would be lost without him. But these are things you don’t know how to say, or maybe feel like you can’t, because you’ve built this persona for yourself where it’s not acceptable for you to have a normal human feeling, or any at all. Even John Watson, the object of your love and affection, thinks you aren’t capable of these feelings.”

                John felt as if he’d been slapped across the face.

                “Let me ask you another question, Mr. Holmes,” said Ella. “Why John’s room? For the masturbatory act? Why not go into your own room, lock the door, where he wouldn’t know the difference?”

                John’s ears perked up. Those were almost the exact same words that Sherlock had used when he’d scolded him about being passed-out drunk in the living room. “He wanted to be caught,” John breathed, not really realizing that he’d said it out loud. But it was like a sort of epiphany, for him.

                “John,” said Ella, “Sherlock has a very difficult time sharing his feelings. And he had so, so many, that he didn’t know how else to express them. To the detriment of his own pride and image, he needed you to know.”

                John gazed over at Sherlock, then. He looked utterly wrecked: his body was slumped in the chair, his face grey, his eyes far, far away.

                Ella turned back to Sherlock. “Do you agree with those deductions?” she asked, a smile coming back to her lips.

                Sherlock stared at his hands. “They appear sound to me.”

                Ella nodded. Then she rounded on John, abruptly. “And now,” she said to him, “I really am going to ask you to leave the room.” John blinked at her, turned back to Sherlock, who gave him no acknowledgement, so he picked up his jacket and waited out in the hall for them to finish.

***

                Ella turned back to Sherlock when John had closed the door. “I wanted John to leave because I wanted to give you some advice.”

                Sherlock sighed and sat up in his chair.

                “When you love someone and you want to have sex with them,” she said, “that means you are _in_ love.”

                Sherlock looked up at her.

                “I’m not telling you you have to admit it to anyone—just to yourself. So that you know now that you’ve been in love. That you know what it’s like.” She smiled. “Welcome to the human race.”

                The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up.

                “Also, this is pretty much illegal for me to say, for confidentiality reasons, but I thought it would help things along if you knew.” She took a deep breath. “John is in love with you, too.”

                “He is?” Sherlock whispered the words, hopeful.

                Ella smiled again. “Well, he doesn’t realize it, but yes, he is. He has been for a very long time.” She tossed her pad of paper and pen on the desk in front of her. “But he’s never going to come to that realization if you don’t help him. You need to start talking about your feelings, Mr. Holmes. I know it’s difficult, but you have to try.”


	5. Kiss

                The taxi ride home was silent, but not the usual comfortable silence that normally accompanied the two best friends. It was awkward, emotionally and physically, for both—full of unposed questions and unspoken speculations. Sherlock had squished his body as close as possible to the door next to him, leaning his curly head on the window and staring out into the rainy afternoon.

                The therapy session had been pretty brutal, but also a relief; Ella had been able to put into words what Sherlock couldn’t, and that had felt like a gigantic weight off his shoulders. John knew, now. He understood, now.

                But after they’d left, that relief had evaporated. In Ella’s office, there was a sort of safe aura, where things could be said in confidence, people could be silent and listen, absorb, be open to the truth. But outside, there was no aura; reality hit them, a cold, wet slap in the face, as they stepped out of the building and into the inclement weather. Even the air felt thinner, less breathable. Sherlock was gasping.

                Now they had to return home, to the flat where they lived together. They had to figure out how to go from here, how to live life with the knowledge they had both learned in that office. They had to reconcile the two truths, the two worlds; one where they were friends, only friends, and Sherlock avoided his feelings, and John tried to provoke him into feeling _more_ ; and one where John knew that Sherlock felt everything, and intensely, and all for him.

                Sherlock knew John would want to leave. He could almost hear him saying it, the clearing of his throat, the shuffling of his feet, the deep breath and exhale before his spoke, without looking up, “I really think I should move out. It’s just too much, Sherlock. I just lost Mary, and the baby, and I can’t process all of this right now. I don’t want to give you any false hope, either… you know that I’m not… you know… and that means I can’t give you what you… it’s just too much, right now. I just need some time.” Sherlock felt his heart contract, an acidic pain spread out from the center of his chest, stinging his stomach, throat, eyes. Those words would be terribly, horribly painful. Just thinking about them had brought a little taste of that pain; he couldn’t imagine what the real thing would do.

                What would he do after John left? After the flat was sucked dry of all things John, of his sound and smell and flesh; negative space, vacuum space. Nothing alive, anymore. Devoid of warmth and friendship and fighting and awkward tension, sexual or otherwise. Empty.

                Sherlock thought the emptiness might kill him, now. Once upon a time he had lived with that emptiness, he’d known how, convinced himself that it wasn’t empty; he just didn’t have a hole where most people did. There was nothing to fill. But now it had been full, that hole he never thought he had, and to empty it again would be catastrophic. It would fall in on itself, nothing to support it. He would go crazy. He would be sad. More than sad; he would be devastated.

                They pulled up to 221B.

                Sherlock and John got out of the car, John paid the cabby, Sherlock unlocked the front door (the usual sequence). Sherlock went in, first, not waiting for John (again, like always). Each step up the stairs was a step closer to the end. Like he was on death row, being herded along to the electric chair. _I should have eaten a meal_ , thought Sherlock. _They always give you one last meal._

                Sherlock hung his coat and scarf on the hook as John came up the stairs behind him. He smoothed the sides of the coat out and down, absentmindedly, not wanting to turn around and face his best friend, who was currently standing right behind him and waiting to destroy his heart.

                “Sherlock.”

                Sherlock gathered his nerves, whatever little he had left, and turned around.

                John kissed him.

                His shock was palpable; Sherlock was positive John could feel it on his lips, then on his tongue (just a little tongue). His eyes were still open, hadn’t closed on reflex—none of his reflexes were working. The lack of breathing and beating heart were especially noticeable.

                John pulled away, but only a little, only enough so that they could focus on each other’s faces, read each other’s expressions. John’s was apprehensive, scared, hopeful; Sherlock didn’t know what his was. Probably still shock. Sherlock noticed that John’s lips were too low, now, to meet his. He must have had to stand on tip-toe to reach him. All of that _effort._

                Sherlock bent his head to kiss John again. John’s lips met his, soft, parted, shaky. John lifted a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, not necessarily pulling him in, but holding him, tenderly. Sherlock closed his eyes, this time. His hands went to John’s waist—again, not pulling, just resting, touching tentatively. They kissed for a few seconds, then both pulled away at the same time.

                John let out a loud exhale, comically loud, a little “whew.” He giggled, and Sherlock smiled nervously.

                John’s face grew more serious, but the lightness of the laughter was still in his expression. “Sherlock…” he ran a hand through his own hair and blinked, clearly trying to find a way to start the conversation. “This really doesn’t make much sense to me,” he began. “I feel… I’m not sure what.” He sighed. “Look, all I know is that after all this, these past couple days, I actually sort  of… _want_ you, in a way, you know? What to know what it… I mean, Sherlock, I’ve never had a relationship with a man. I’ve never been _attracted_ to a man. This is all new for me.”

                “It’s new for me, too,” Sherlock said quietly.

                “Yes, but…” John sighed again. “You know I’ve never been good at this stuff, either. Expressing my feelings… it’s just so difficult, to narrow it down, put it into works, and then share those words.” He scratched his head. “So, look. This is what I want to say: you’re my best friend, Sherlock. I’ve never had such a close relationship with anyone else, not even Mary.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can be your… you know, boyfriend.” He made a face and shook his head at the word, as if it wasn’t quite what he expected. “But the thought of it, of trying it, the curiosity of what it might be… it’s exciting. I find it exciting. Not disgusting, or creepy, or wrong, or all the things that I’ve felt before when I thought of myself with a man. I’m intrigued, I’m giddy, I’m…” he took another breath. “I’m ready. If you are.”

                Sherlock swallowed. “But what… what if it doesn’t work? What if you don’t want me, after all?”

                “Or you don’t want me?” John added.

                Sherlock tutted, for a second his usual self, annoyed with John’s stupidity. “That would be impossible.”

                John smiled and considered the question. “Life’s too short,” he said, finally. “We know that all too well.” His smile began to fade, and he gave himself a little shake. “If we fuck it up, we fuck it up,” he said, with a shrug. “We’ll deal with it.”

                “Romantic,” Sherlock drawled. Then he suddenly looked uncomfortable. “What, now?”

                “Well,” said John, a little deviously. “I’d like to kiss you again, for starters.”

 _The End_.


End file.
